THE HI-FI’S CUED UP with Herb Alpert & The Tijuana Brass. Cocktails arrive in carved wooden cups. Kitschy artwork covers the walls, including a black velvet Elvis portrait, sharing space with racks of ’50s-era kitchen gadgets. You might expect Don the Beachcomber himself to come through the door any minute and call for a round of Mai Tais on him.
If you’re of a certain age, the whole tiki-culture concept at Mainlander (8 S. Euclid) will make you think that you’re about to be hustled off to bed because the grownups are breaking out the rum-and-sugar concoctions and starting to Twist and “Limbo!” down in the rumpus room.
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Here’s the idea: a “supper club,” an intimate hideaway, with fewer than 20 seats and a swanky bar featuring classic Trader Vic’s–style specialties along with some thoroughly modern and innovative recipes, plus some fairly amazing small dishes served at an unhurried, nicely timed pace, followed by a smasher of a main course. Reservations make for two timed seatings each night. In this environment, Mainlander manages to create a sense that your table is the sole focus of both the kitchen and waitstaff.
You understand, right about the time the first course appears, that this is no ordinary kitchen. Fa mian bing is a fluffy bread from northern China that resembles an airy cornbread. Here, it’s in half-dollar-size rounds, topped with a dollop of avocado mousse and a beautiful, glossy black pyramid of caviar. Your palate’s not lying: This is an exceptional caviar, with a tang similar to salted butter. The combination of textures here—the chewy bing and that delicate pop of the caviar—are brought together with the smooth mousse. It’s splendid.
The night’s fare is chalked on the wall. Descriptions, though, are bare. It’s intriguing to try to guess what’s coming. A “caramelized croquette” had the whole room wondering. We weren’t expecting what looked like—well, as our server put it—“a chunk of Stouffer’s dressing.” Dark and dense, caramelized onions were pressed into a domino square of a tart. The flavor was intense, the essence of the bulb. Imagine biting into a delectable, dehydrated cube of French onion soup. It’s an impressive way to begin dinner; it’s only a start, though. Mainlander’s approach is unusual: You get hit with half a dozen of what are called “tidbits,” a considerable understatement, given the caliber of amazing amuse-bouche.
Bit into, snowy coin blobs of tapioca and potato “bombs” release all of their marshmallow-textured starchiness. They play off an earthy, aromatic tangle of herb- and garlic-flecked chicken-of-the-woods mushroom duxelles that are bursting with their juices, a combination that drew raves from our whole table. “Candy apple chicken” is exactly that: wing meat pushed into meaty lollipops, with a crust of hardened syrup that’s a weirdly, wonderfully savory-sweet.
Your home’s kitchen is probably larger than Mainlander’s, which makes the food all the more remarkable. We caught a glimpse of the action that might be described as a shouwan wok—a “wok wrist,” that easy flipping action of the wok’s handle, keeping ingredients constantly moving. The chef’s technique is so good that when he served the next course, we asked where he’d learned it, and he replied he’d spent time—a lot—in Wolfgang Puck’s employment while making Asian dishes. It shows in his technique and what’s served. “Bratstickers” are similar to Chinese dumplings, stuffed with chorizo and ground pork, spattered with honey mustard and matched with braised cabbage.
Remember King Ranch Chicken, that epic mushroom-soup-fueled casserole beloved by Lady Bird Johnson in the ’60s? Yeah, this ain’t it. Mainlander has a weird sense of humor: The “King Ranch Duck,” the main course on our visit, was a sumptuous extravaganza. Duck thighs joyously melted into a fine confit, shredded and piled between a pair of warm blue corn tortillas. Smoked cheddar topped the dish; a dark carmine slurry of chile sauce swirled all around. Alongside was a big serving bowl generously piled with flash-fried spinach, green beans, and circles of squash, all roasted and drizzled with juices of lemon and fresh ginger, which added sparkle and piquancy to every bite. It really was an extraordinary vegetable dish and perfectly accompanied the duck tacos.
Seasonality is as dominant a theme here as tiki glasses. We tasted it, in a dessert that perfectly captured the moment. Accompanied by a squirt of fragrant, sweet-creamed goat cheese was a brownie, redolent with the soft, banana-like taste of pawpaws, locally harvested and at their peak for only for a week or so. It was a cakey, concentrated celebration of the fruit—a reminder too, that by this time, the menu will have changed, probably more than once, which—given our experience—makes us eager to return to see what’s coming next.
THE BOTTOM LINE The early ’60s tiki culture returns—and brings some great supper club dishes with it.
